Blue sun tattoo with spiky rays and the word sunshine in script on the side of the neck, behind the ear.

Sun and script on the neck

Neck · Colour · Photo

A black and white photograph of a person's neck and ear, with hair pulled back to the side. A blue ink sun with a solid centre and spiky rays sits on the neck, with the word sunshine in small cursive script beneath it. The single blue ink stands out against the greyscale photo, and the tattoo is placed near the centre of the frame.

Neck Sun Ray Sunshine Script

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The pass closed in October, and by November my mother had stopped counting the days aloud. The snow came over the col sideways, and the goats crowded into the lower byre, breathing like bellows. I was nine. My brother Tomas had gone down to the valley with the wool cart and not come back, and the only thing anyone in the hut could agree on was that the sun would not show itself above Garrow Ridge until the first week of February.

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On the ninth day of the dark I climbed the slope behind the hut with a tin lamp and a cracked hand mirror that had belonged to my grandmother. The silver had gone patchy with age, spotted like a trout's back. I caught the last grey light on it and turned it toward the ridge, and I tried to remember the word my grandmother used for the sun when it came back. She called it the bright one. I shouted it into the wind until my throat tasted of metal.

Tomas came up the path at dusk with frost in his eyebrows and a sack of salt on his shoulder. He said the carters on the valley road had seen my mirror flashing against the black rock, a small wink of light, and they had followed it. Forty of them had walked up behind him with lanterns. Nobody had told them where to go. They had only looked for the light.

When the sun finally cleared the ridge, it came through the pass like something spilled, and it caught the frost on every spike of the rocks. My mother cried, which she had not done since the funeral. I still have the mirror. The silver is worse now, but I hold it up each February all the same, because it is still the quickest way I know to tell someone, here, look.